


To Become

by KayGryffin



Series: Web of Pieces [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adopted Peter Parker, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome May Parker (Spider-Man), Ben Parker is alive, Canon Related, Other, POV Peter Parker, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter-centric, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Teen Peter Parker, The Avengers Need a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayGryffin/pseuds/KayGryffin
Summary: But he doesn’t. He’s come too far and Dad says that Stark men are made of iron, and Peter’s not a Stark but he’s the son of one so that counts for something. He’s got a big name to live up to, and as such he stands his ground, imagining himself to be a iron pole ripping up through the concrete, opens his mouth and says,”HiI’mPeterParkerandIthinkyou’vebeenlookingformemayIcomeinplease?"...Our teenage years are a time for us, as people, to find out who we are, who we are made to be in the world around us, which is hard enough to figure out if you're normal. Try being the secret adopted son of Captain America and Iron Man.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are! At the first story of Peter's solo adventures! I'm so excited to share this with you all, especially after how much you like my IW snippet! Of course, that story is far in the future of Peter's life, and there's so much I got started in the last story of Stuck Together that I feel needs to be covered so this is my way of starting that. There's so much I want to tell you all but I want my plans to be a surprise so hopefully you all will stick around for the ride and watch what unfolds! 
> 
> Side note: Peter is fifteen around the start of this story. This is a full year and a bit before the events of Homecoming.

When he goes to see the Parkers, Peter goes alone.

He goes on his way home from school one Thursday afternoon, having changed into a barely-wrinkled dress shirt and tie to go with the khakis he wore that day in the bathroom right after his last class, shoving his t-shirt into the depths of a cluttered book bag. He walks over, because the train would be too fast and there’s so many things he wants to say exactly the right way and he needs the time to figure out exactly what they are. His emotions are jumbled-up mess that seem to contradict yet complement each other at every turn, running somehow both parallel and perpendicular to each other, and he can’t fully interpret whether he’s terrified, happy, excited, nervous, apprehensive, angry or curious; they’re all just merging into something that has his stomach flipping every which way and his hands all clammy.

His dads don’t know that he’s going to see them. They’ve asked him before if he wanted to, but he’s always given vague answers that intentionally disguised his intrigue in meeting the couple. He’s not sure why he did so, to be entirely honest—a part of him felt guilty, he figures, that he felt curious towards the two unknown long-lost family members of his when he has a full and loving family right before him; as if he were betraying his family with the Avengers by just thinking about the family he could’ve had, in a different life. He knows that the guilt is unfounded—that it’s natural to be curious about them, justified, even, given his background—but he just can’t help but feel this way, even now, when his curiosity has finally overpowered the guilt and led him to this point.

Tony texts him to ask him when he’s planning on coming home that day, and if he wants a ride from the school. Peter’s in high school now, but more often than not he’s more than happy to let his dad come and pick him up, even though it sometimes makes him feel a bit guilty because their relation still isn’t public knowledge and, as such, Tony’s got to come covered up in disguises, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind too much and Peter’s not one of those teenagers who try to push away their parents in order to seem less like a baby. Hell, he’s still more than willing to cuddle Steve if the man himself is willing.

As far as Tony knows, Peter’s at his robotics club today, so Peter’s got until about seven or eight tonight to meet the Parkers before he’s got to head home. He replies that he’s going to get dinner with his friends and then head home after. Tony doesn’t seem all too pushy, so he just simply asks for an estimated time and inquires if Peter needs a bit more money in his account, which the boy refuses adamantly. Tony’s already got a full college fund set aside for him so Peter can go to literally any university or college he wants to, and he deposits about five hundred bi-weekly into an account Tony set up for him last year—and there would be more, too, if Peter and Steve _and_ Bruce altogether hadn’t managed to talk Tony down to a quarter of the original amount seven months ago.

Before he thinks about it, he smiles at the thought of that argument before it can begin to sour, flashes of Ultron coming to disturb the memory. Every memory before five months ago, especially those including Bruce, became bittersweet ever since the intelligence had tried to kill the human race, especially when it served to fracture his family a bit. Natta’s smiles, which weren’t so easy to get before, are damned near impossible to get now that Bruce is gone, and Uncle Clint tends to stay at his farm more often than not, and Thor, who had become a quick and easy friend in the short time he’d known him, was away again, for who knew how long, leaving him with just his fathers, sometimes Wanda, a lot of the time the Vision and, on occasion, Sam; none of whom were terrible people but none of which were the family he gained with the exception of his fathers—one of whom is barely around anymore.

It hurts, to think of how much he misses Steve, but he knows that it’s for the best. Steve’s got a job to do, a team to lead; and it means that he’s needed away more often than not. The world’s safe, though not appreciative of his struggles, and Peter’s safe, and appreciative of the work he’s doing—just a bit saddened that he doesn’t get to see him as often as he would like is all, and he knows that what he feels is but a fraction of what Tony feels, because he’s seen it first hand, though Tony does his best to hide it. Steve is as much a part of Tony as he is, and he can only guess that for Tony, it’s like he’s put part of himself on loan to the world and can only hope that the world is willing enough to allow it to come back.

And it hurts, knowing that Tony feels such a way, and it’s even worse because on top of that, Steve’s as much his dad as Tony is, and he’s struggled for so long to find his parents and now he doesn’t get to see one of them anymore because he’s committed to the greater good. It hurts and it sucks and it’s just downright unfair, especially when he has to see that look in Tony’s eye when he sees one of Steve’s forgotten sketchbooks; that look of pain and longing and sadness that hangs for a few terse seconds before he pushes it right back down as he refocuses his attentions on something else for his own sake.

But he can’t think about that now, he reminds himself as he steels his resolve, continuing forwards with steps he hadn’t even realized he’d stopped making, his hand clenched tight around his phone in a way that, if he were more like his father, would’ve made it shatter already. He refocuses himself instead of letting the sadness envelop him, because he just can’t do that, not when he’s about to make such a big step in his life. He focuses himself on the Parkers instead, because that’s where his focus should be, and that’s where he needs it to be, for his own sake.

They haven’t talked all too much about the Parkers since Tony initially told him about them, but Tony’s given him access to everything he knows about them through a folder on Peter’s personal drive within JARVIS’ OS, which was thankfully salvaged when FRIDAY was activated upon losing JARVIS. He knows that the Parkers are in their early-to-late fifties, May at fifty-three and looking no more than forty-two, and Ben at fifty-eight and the gray hairs to match. He knows they moved to Forest Hills right after getting married in 1988, and tried several times to have children before giving up by 1994. May studied to become a nurse soon after, and currently works for Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn, while Ben, a former veteran, currently runs his own business. His own father, Richard, was younger than Ben by fifteen years, only twenty-nine when Peter himself was born in August of 2001. Ben listed him as missing in November of 2003.

It’s weird, knowing all this with the sort of detachment he has to it all, because as he doesn’t remember any of it, it almost feels like another person’s life rather than his own. Peter doesn’t reconcile that May is his aunt, and Ben his uncle, because to him, they aren’t—they haven’t been. He doesn’t blame them for it, it was a situation never in the realms of their control, but it doesn’t change that he doesn’t see them as family as so much as strangers who happen to have known him when he was but a toddler.

Still, he can’t figure out what to say. The words seem to gum up in his head and stick in his throat; refusing to come forth and be released and uttered. He’s nervous because of the infinite negative possibilities he seems to conjure up, and he’s apprehensive because of all the positive outcomes at conjunction with them. This situation, for him, has no clear and obvious result, and while as a child of science, he’s used to the idea that there exists potential for unknown reaction, where he would usually find excitement in finding something new, he instead finds himself with far too much potential downfall.

And it’s just downright terrifying.

Peter’s school isn’t exactly far from the Parkers’ home, so it shouldn’t be so much of a surprise as it is, but he’s there before he can truly contemplate exactly what it is that he can say, and suddenly he has a burning desire to run away screaming, because somehow the little brick home looks far more intimidating than it does in the photographs Tony’s showed him, even with the little bits of flowers and homely touches it’s got, but all Peter can see is the potential for implosion, and suddenly it’s just really hard to breathe, like it’s actually choking him out, and all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears as he tries to force his foot to make a step forwards, and he does try, but it doesn’t want to, his feet both want to run away as fast as possible, just _run run run_ , go back to the home where he knows he’s safe and wrap his hands around his fathers and never let go because they’re comfortable, they’re safe, they’re what he knows and they’re his family and _god how much he wants his dads_ and—and—

And when did the door open?

A man is staring at him, familiar lines and strands of grey hair, frowning at him because it’s probably a weird sight to see, a kid just glaring at your house like it’s sentencing him to death, and he knows he’s glaring because he tells him as much, in a rough voice that speaks of age that makes sense for the man, and Peter really just wants to curl up and die because this is stupid and it’s scary and he just wants to go home and pretend that he never came by this house in the first place, looking for answers whose questions he doesn’t even really know.

But he doesn’t. He’s come too far and his dad would sometimes say (usually in the midst of the lows of depression) that Stark men are made of iron, and Peter’s not a Stark, technically [but then again, neither is Tony, really] but he’s the son of one so that counts for something. He’s got a big name to live up to, and as such he stands his ground, imagining himself to be a wrought iron pole ripping up through the concrete, unwilling to bend to the tests of abuse and time, and he opens his mouth and says,

” _HiI’mPeterParkerandIthinkyou’vebeenlookingformemayIcomeinplease_ ,”

As one huge breath of a sentence, because he knows that if he doesn’t get it all out in one shot he’ll just let his fear get the better of him and he’ll just _run_ , so for better or worse it’s out now, and by the look on the man’s face he heard everything, because his expression just _drops_ , instantly, looking crestfallen and upset and angry and Peter completely understands why he feels that way, and knows that it’s not because of him that he feels it—because this man has been looking for practically all of Peter’s life and now he’s just fucking _walked up_ and he can understand why he’d be pissed.

Benjamin Parker is quiet, and Peter allows the silence although it makes his fear run rampant, but the silence is only a few moments before Mr. Parker asks, quietly, “Please don’t be another one of those liars.”

Peter frowns. “I—no. Of course not.” It’s a thought he’s never considered but should’ve. There’s plenty of people who would capitalize, after all. “I can’t prove it, though, I guess. I don’t really remember all that much from before being in group homes, after all, so I can’t just throw down random pieces o-of the past or anything. I haven’t got much.”

He swallows. He should’ve brought some of the few relics he did have, though, admittedly, he doubts that they would be much help—all that’s left, after all, are an old wristwatch of, presumably, his mother’s, and the original but broken [treasured] remains of his father’s glasses.

Peter’s thoughts are interrupted by a sigh so pained from Mr. Parker that he immediately returns his attentions to the man, who’s staring at him with such a heart-broken expression that Peter’s immediately afraid that he’s done something entirely wrong, and it must show because he shakes his head and gestures for Peter to come on inside, saying almost too quietly,

“You look too much like Richard like that to be anyone else’s kid.” 


	2. To Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter considers his life as so far in the wake of meeting his aunt and uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is really just me being my anxious self but I have like no feedback for this (I have the bookmarks, which is obviously appreciated) so if you could tell me what you think I'd really appreciate that. :) 
> 
> In other news, my first story in the Stuck Together series just passed 16k in views! I'm so excited. The second story also now has 10k in views as well! I hope this series has a similar success :)

Peter sits where directed by Mr. Parker, atop a flower-patterned sofa in a small living room just inside the front door. It’s cramped in comparison to the one at the tower, which can probably consume this one at least five times over, if his estimates are accurate, but it’s such an intimate space that Peter feels nearly unwelcome in it. He’s an intruder here, welcomed in by its inhabitants, or at the very least one of them, but this isn’t a space meant for the likes of him. Peter keeps his hands on his knees, trying not to touch more than he’s apparently allowed to, shaking his head politely when offered a glass of water by Mr. Parker, partly because he doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to drink it without choking, he’s so antsy.

It’s quiet, for a long while, between himself and Mr. Parker, because for his part he has no clue what he could possibly say and for Mr. Parker’s part, he figures, this is goddamn weird to say the least and worth a few moments’ consideration. Peter doesn’t blame him. This is probably the last thing he was expecting when he woke that morning, after all; a long-lost nephew come ‘round to visit, and it reads on his face evidently that he doesn’t know what to do at all, and so Peter stays silent while the man gets his bearings, which allows himself the very same courtesy, because now that he’s here he has no clue what to say to him.

“May—my wife, May—is probably on her way home now,” Mr. Parker says after a while, “She works at—”

“—Long Island College Hospital,” Peter completes before he thinks about it.

Mr. Parker stops, and stares at Peter with a considering look before saying, “You know, son… you’re coming off as a bit of a stalker now.”

Peter blushes. He can understand that. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, “It’s just that I, y’know… I kind of looked you two up?” It’s not completely a lie.

Mr. Parker smirks a bit.

“Wanted to make sure we’re not a pair of psychopaths? I can understand that,” he says, and Peter squawks indignantly before the smirk gives way to a bit of laughter, and Peter can only feel incredibly embarrassed because Mr. Parker is only joking with him, really, but he’s apparently a bit too nervous to get a joke at the moment, he figures out.

Mr. Parker is kind enough not to tease him about it. Instead, he asks him where he goes to school, to which he rubs the back of his neck and whispers out, “Midtown High,” sheepish because it’s maybe fifteen minutes from the Parkers’ residence on foot, and he can tell Mr. Parker knows this all too well because he frowns and smacks his knee in frustration.

“Don’t tell me you live here, too,” he says.

“No. I used to live in Astoria,” he says carefully, “But now I live in Midtown.”

“Midtown?” the man whistles, “That’s costly.”

“My… my dad does pretty well.”

He’s trying to avoid saying Tony’s name. Or Steve’s, for that matter, but especially Tony’s.

Mr. Parker nods, slowly, before asking, “How long you live there?” in a way that’s all too Brooklyn for Peter, but he doesn’t let the little sting it gives his heart become noticeable.

“About three, four years now,” he responds, knowing what Mr. Parker’s really asking full well, swallowing back the rising apprehension about the true nature of the conversation. He doesn’t know if Mr. Parker’s the kind to become jealous, or angry, on a topic like this, so he’s treading very carefully here.

Mr. Parker nods again. “And, are you… is it safe there?”

Ultron rushes to mind. “Incredibly,” he says, because it’s true; Tony’s security upgrades had far higher counter-measures for intruders, which truly scared the shit out of him when FRIDAY fired the alarms to alert them of the infiltration of a small mouse at three-thirty-six AM about two months ago.

He smiles a bit.

“Maybe a bit too safe.”

“No such thing,” says Mr. Parker with a small smirk before he swallows dryly and asks, “Are you… are you happy, son?”

The fact that Mr. Parker continues to say ‘son’ instead of his name hurts, too. It’s far too much of a reminder of Steve, because ‘son’ is what he usually says when he’s a bit on the annoyed side and trying to keep Peter in line, which isn’t really often and usually tied to spending more than twelve hours in the workshop putting something together, and it’s usually said with a similar careful enunciation.

Is he happy?

Peter shrugs and says, “I love my parents.”

Mr. Parker chuckles. “Not what I asked.”

Peter doesn’t dare try to answer it. Mr. Parker doesn’t dare try to push it. He moves on to other topics—What are you doing in school? is one. How are you doing in your classes? is another. What are you planning on doing once you graduate? comes next. Small talk, trying to get to know the boy after so long, and Peter’s more than happy to give in to it, answering Mr. Parker as much as he dares—he’s currently taking physics and chemistry back-to-back with a few AP courses thrown in, and he’s doing pretty well considering that chemistry, while the most intriguing class he’s ever taken, is currently kicking his ass because it’s one of those few things that don’t come entirely natural to Peter in the field of science (which makes it all the more enticing), and he’s not entirely sure what he’s planning on doing after graduating—college is a definite, understandably, but he’s not too sure if he wants to pursue mechanical or electrical engineering just yet; chemistry’s so intriguing that he’s kind of leaning in that direction. He’s currently in a robotics club, the bigger-scale one he was so excited to join, and the build season starts in a few months so he’s excited, and Mr. Parker’s curious about what he means by that so by the time May Parker comes home, Mr. Parker and Peter are huddled in front of a beat-up tablet Mr. Parker has to fish out from under the couch, the younger taking the older through the robotics program’s website after a plethora of videos.

Mrs. Parker’s photos, he decides, don’t do her much justice. She’s an incredibly beautiful woman whom time seems to want to leave be; her hair pulled back off her face and bringing attention to truly expressive eyes, which seem dead tired but instantly light up in the wake of seeing a guest in her living room. She shrugs off her sweater, revealing scrubs underneath, leaving it on the coat rack by the door before coming in more to the house.

“Ben,” she says, voice soft but clear, “You didn’t tell me we were expecting guests.”

Mr. Parker looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck, similar to how Peter does though the boy himself doesn’t notice it, “To be fair, May, I didn’t know we were expecting guests, either.”

She gives him a look. “We live in the age of technological advancement, Benjamin; you could’ve sent a text. And don’t say you don’t know how to use your phone; your data overages are about sixty percent of why our phone bill is so much every month, so don’t give me your excuses. Now, that being said,” she looks at Peter now, giving him such a gentle look that Peter’s heart just _hurts_ , “Who is our most esteemed guest?”

Peter’s voice seems stuck in his throat, because he opens his mouth but none of the sound seems ready to escape.

Mr. Parker swoops in to his rescue, his smile gone as he says, “May, sweetheart… this is Peter.”

Mrs. Parker, for her part, looks like she’s going to ask for a last name to follow up, but she takes another look at Peter’s face and her expression just _drops_ , her smile instantly disappearing as her mouth forms a small ‘o’ of understanding, looking instantly heartbroken in a way that makes him feel utterly guilty for the underlying pain that resides in the depths of her dark brown eyes, and he knows that she knows _exactly_ who he is, no last name needed, and that just makes the pain even worse, but he suffers through it, because he has to—he just has to.

Mrs. Parker looks shaky as she moves to a seat, sitting down on the small matching loveseat that Mr. Parker had formerly occupied before joining Peter on the main couch, staring at Peter with the same expression, and it’s admittedly beginning to make him feel antsy, but he suffers through it nonetheless. Mr. Parker moves to join her, carefully wrapping an arm around his wife in a quiet show of support, and she asks him, quietly, if this moment is real. She doesn’t ask if it’s really Peter—she can see it, just like Mr. Parker could after a while. Peter goes quiet again—his voice doesn’t want to speak, anyways.

It takes a while for Mrs. Parker to come out of her initial stage of shock, and Peter’s feeling of awkwardness only grows more and more in the stewing tension of silence, making him wish for nothing more than to make an expedient exit because this was a goddamn _mistake_ (at least the part where he decided not to call first like any person with common sense would, which he apparently lacks), but when she does, it’s not really a reaction he expects—how can he, after all, when the reaction is to leap out of her seat and, with the pounce none too dissimilar from a hunter, she wraps her arms around Peter and yanks him out of his seat, and proceeds to squeeze him so tight he’s pretty sure she’s popped his kidney. She doesn’t look like she’s capable of such superhuman strength, but the deathgrip she has around his torso proves otherwise, and he’s not sure quite what to do until he hears her let out a choked sob that has him returning the embrace back, confused and a bit frightened by the lack of emotion he actually feels at this.

Isn’t he supposed to feel some sort of… anything, really?

Happiness, maybe?

Sadness?

Anything at all?

But no, he feels nothing, and it’s actually on the side of goddamn terrifying.

Peter doesn’t stay too long after that—maybe another hour, hour and a half, before he essentially runs away (Mrs. Parker does force him to agree to come back in a few weeks, for dinner perhaps, and makes him leave his phone number and email address as well as take down her contact information as well). On the train back towards home, he finds himself with his head hanging between his legs as he tries to regain some sense of normalized breathing patterns. His elbows are propped upon his knees, hands weaving through his hair as his panic begins to take over, his foot tapping unendingly without rhythm as he attempts to regain any sense of calm, a soft song repeating themselves quietly in his ears, crackling with the fault in the microphone it’d been recorded with. Steve’s old lullaby helps Tony, after all, so it makes sense that it might help him, too, because he is freaking out pretty badly.

He’s not overly excited to be home, but it does bring a welcomed relief to the tension he feels when he hears FRIDAY’s voice over the speakers welcoming him back, which is only dampened by the sudden imagining of JARVIS’ voice instead of her softly accented one. He used to make a stop at the communal floor to get a snack before moving to the private flat he shares with Tony (and Steve), but now he doesn’t even look at the button for the shared floor as the elevator lifts him towards home and bittersweet relief.

When he exits the elevator, he immediately notices the differences in the air; the comforting, albeit tense atmosphere replaced with the sounds of arguments drifting from the kitchen. He knows instantly, without even having to see the shoes by the elevator that Steve’s home, and he also knows, just as quickly, that he isn’t going to be for too long. He’s probably stopped by because he could spare the night, or because he was already in town; the why doesn’t matter much to Peter, in the end, because either which way his dad’s going to be gone by the time he wakes up in the morning. It’s something he’s become accustomed to, in these recent months, and probably one of the points of contention in the argument ensuing between his beloved parents.

Peter knows Tony loves Steve, and he knows Steve loves Tony, but he’s not foolish or young enough not to know that it doesn’t mean they’re perfectly happy, because they’re not—how can they be, when they don’t even get to see each other but maybe once or twice a month? Especially given that, when they do, they don’t even get to even really focus on each other; they argue and fight and shout at each other and then they focus on Peter and pretend that nothing is even wrong until he goes to bed, and it’s kind of painful to see their relationship go through such a stressor. They both honestly deserve to be happy together, but the world doesn’t seem to feel the same way about it that he does, and it sucks, knowing that there’s a distinct possibility that his two parents might not stay together.

He carefully takes off his shoes, trying his best not to let the two debaters know he’s entered the home, listening to their argument whilst doing his best not to let the rising anger and sadness boil in his chest like he wants to let it do, loosening the badly-done tie around his neck as he quietly moves close to the kitchen, hanging back against the wall as he tries to keep himself out of Steve’s superhuman senses, which is entirely too easy, but it’s probably because he can tell already that Steve’s more than occupied by the fact that Tony’s just screaming his head off about how unfair Steve’s fucking being. Tony’s arms, which he can see by the moving shadows being cast across the floor of the room, are waving, looking like he wants to hit something but can’t quite pick exactly what, whereas Steve’s form is rigid, back straight and rigid in the face of Tony’s anger, and he can almost imagine the look he’s giving Tony right now, because Steve has this one face he does when he knows someone’s right, can’t truly even argue but knows that the other person—primarily, Tony, usually—really just wants someone to yell at. He’s got this idea that Tony deserves it; deserves someone to be on the receiving end of any negativity he’s feeling given the kind of sacrifices he’s had to make, and it makes sense but Peter also thinks it’s utterly ridiculous that he feels like he’s got to feel this way.

“—and for another thing, you can’t just walk in whenever you want!” Tony barks at him.

“I live here, too,” Steve quietly reminds him, voice soft and without any true heat behind the words, and he doesn’t fight back when it earns him a whole new round of shouts from Tony, and Peter slides to a seat, hands weaving into his hair.

He isn’t on either of their sides. He isn’t even sure if there is a side to be taking, if he’s entirely honest, mostly because Peter doesn’t know if there is a bad guy or a good guy in the entirety of this scenario. Peter loves his parents, both of them, and he just can’t pick a side, can’t decide if Dad’s being unfair to Pops or if Pops is being a royal dick to Dad, because it’s not cut and clear if it’s really either or. All he does know is that he doesn’t get to see his Pops anymore because he’s so busy with literally everything else now and it makes his Dad unhappy and leaves the house half-empty all the time and he kind of just wishes that Pops wasn’t actually Captain America, sometimes, and he always feels bad about even thinking about it because it’s entirely out of selfishness that it even comes up.

Peter finds himself wrapping his arms around his legs. He’s grown a lot in the past year or so, but he still finds this to be a comfortable position, and still capable of placing his cheek against his knees. Tony’s voice is rising in volume and Steve’s only gets softer, and Peter’s heart just hurts because they shouldn’t be fighting, this isn’t even really a fight; Tony’s just upset that Steve’s gone so much and he doesn’t know how to express himself even remotely normally sometimes and he’s unhappy and Peter just loves his parents so much but… is he happy?

“And Peter! It’s entirely unfair to Peter! He’s a kid and it’s not right—don’t _fuckingshakeyourhead_ , Steve,” Tony growls.

Mr. Parker asked him earlier if he’s happy, and he didn’t answer it then, and he still isn’t sure what the answer is. Dimly, he hears Steve say his name, but Peter’s busy thinking about the answer to Mr. Parker’s question and it’s kind of freaking him out how much it scares him, the possible response he has to it all.

“Pete,” Steve repeats, now crouched in front of him, his fingers pushing his hair off his face, eyes trained carefully on him, concern leaking through just by the look his pops giving him, so he forces a smile, croaks out a small greeting as he unfolds himself, watching out the corner of his eye as Tony quietly comes around the corner, leaning against the wall as he watches the two of them with an evidently guarded look as they embraced.

Steve doesn’t ask if Peter’s heard what’s been said and he can only assume that it’s because he already knows that Peter’s heard a bit of the argument and neither his pops nor his dad seem to want to talk about he’s heard—Steve asks if he’s hungry, and by the end of the night he finds himself filled with pizza and mozzarella and pepperoni from Tony’s favorite place, shoved in the tight space between his parents like the miniature wall he’s become over the past few months, doing his best to ignore the fact that they’ve become a bit broken and that his dad’s holding his hand a bit tightly while his pop’s arm over his shoulders is a bit heavier than he’d like and he can’t even really focus on the movie that’s playing. He hasn’t said more than five words, in total, to either of them, and he’s smiled all night like he’s the happiest kid alive, but all he can hear is Mr. Parker’s voice in his head in his head asking if he’s happy, over and over again. He tries to ignore it, tries to focus on the movie, but it’s hard, he finds, because every so often he’ll notice Dad’s glaring at Pops, or that Pops is checking his phone to make sure no one’s needed him in the past few minutes. The moment is lost, on all of them, and it only makes the answer to Mr. Parker’s question all the more painful as he comes closer and closer to recognizing it for what it is, and all Peter can do is sit there, wishing for the past, but stuck entirely in the reality of the present, which sucks entirely so, and he just wants everything he’s familiar with to come back.

When Peter wakes up the next morning, Steve’s gone, and it’s completely shit because he doesn’t even have to roll out of bed to know that his pops is gone and he just feels this immediate sense of guilt because he automatically just wants to call Steve out for a selfishness he knows isn’t truly there; he’s just on the side of angry because he just wants his father around. Steve has a job to do, and Peter understands that, but he also wants his goddamn _fucking_ father back from the world because it’s not fucking _fair_. It’s wrong for him to feel this way, he can’t help but remind himself, but at the end of the day, he’s just fifteen-year-old kid who just wants to see his dad more than once a month.

Tony’s there, though, and he tries to make it enough, because he loves his Dad so much, and he needs Peter, right now, to stand with him through this storm. The media hates him, half of his team distrusts him in the wake of the Ultron incident, and the American government is keeping tabs on him—Tony needs someone in his dugout right now, and Steve’s up to bat with a different team at the moment. It leaves Peter to pick up the slack left in his wake, and it leaves him on the receiving end of more than a few blow-ups, all of which Tony apologizes for as soon as he’s able although they’re never due. Peter’s not entirely good with dealing with the panic attacks—Dad always did his best, in the past, to keep Peter from this part of himself, despite the fact that Peter already knew about it—but he does the best that he can, although his best leaves him exhausted emotionally and stresses him out.

He can tell that Dad feels guilty just by the way he looks at him. All he wants is to give Peter a better life, after all, and Peter doesn’t know how to communicate to him properly that it’s not his fault, none of it, and that Peter doesn’t blame him for a thing—he can tell him all he wants, but Tony seems to find this underlying meaning that tells him that Peter’s somehow lying, and although he’s not, he can’t seem to make Tony realize he’s telling the truth. It doesn’t help that he now has to travel with an actual security team whenever he dares venture outside the tower, which is a rare occurrence nowadays because people outside look at him and see nothing but the bad things he’s done in the wake of Sokovia’s destruction. Sure, they looked at all the Avengers this way, now, but Tony’s the only one who’s made himself remotely accessible to the public, and so he’s become this sort of paradigm of the evils of heroism—because people are assholes and can’t be happy that someone’s trying to keep them safe by making the sacrifices the people themselves don’t want to make—but that’s just Peter’s opinion.


	3. To Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter does some thinking about his situation. Possibly too much, but such is the person Peter has grown to be.

For the rest of the week, Peter finds himself mulling over the question Mr. Parker left him with, debating with himself over the truth of the answer he just can’t come to terms with; the truth he doesn’t want to recognize, and the guilt just boils hot and heavy in his stomach, the near-constant resulting nausea that accompanies it only getting worse the longer the week drags on. He hates himself for feeling the way he does, and wishes it could just go away, but Mr. Parker’s words just reverberate over and over again his head and it just _hurts so much_ when he can’t help but remember just how unhappy he is—and he is, he’s truly unhappy, and it’s entirely due to his own selfish nature that he feels such a way.

He doesn’t get to see his father, so he’s unhappy.

His family is broken, so he’s unhappy.

He can’t talk to anyone about it, so he’s unhappy.

He knows he has no right to feel unhappy, so he’s _unhappy_.

But he also loves his father, so for his sake, he _pretends_ he’s happy.

He pretends that everything’s okay and that he hasn’t noticed that their family has fallen apart right in their grasp and makes believe that everything is going to fall right back into place once the dust settles even though he knows it’s not that simple because that’s what his dad needs him to feel for both of their sakes. He pretends that he doesn’t miss Natta or Clint or Bruce or Thor or even his father; he acts as if nothing at all has changed and that everything’s right in the world even though it’s not. He continues on as if this has all been just another part of everyday life and pretends that he doesn’t want to scream at the world for ripping his family apart.

He’s unhappy but he can’t afford to be, and that’s what probably makes the pill even harder to swallow.

It’s only made worse by the fact that, outside of the Avengers, there’s not actually a lot of people who know about the adoption. It’s mostly just Pepper, his social worker, the adoption agency, and Stark Industries’ legal team who are privy to such sensitive, high-profile information, essentially leaving Peter himself with very few people whom he can turn to and talk about what he’s currently going through. It makes everything much harder on Peter than it has to be, being back in a situation where he has to keep his feelings to himself like he used to in order to preserve the normality he possesses by being kept removed from the limelight that Tony himself was never able to avoid, which is the entire point of keeping the whole thing a secret in the first place. His dad wants to give him everything that he was never allowed, and supposed normality, the ability to be a fly on the wall, is something he believes is best for Peter to at least have the option to have, which Peter appreciates—he only wishes it didn’t leave him in such an isolated state like the one he currently finds himself in.

He doesn’t have many people who he would attribute the word ‘friend’ to at school. Sure, he’s got a robotics team, but outside of the club, he doesn’t really talk to any of them—Ned’s really the closest he’s got and it’s only because Ned’s the only person who’ll sit with him during lunch if he happens to find himself in the cafeteria. Ned knows nothing about Peter’s life other than he likes to take photos, and Peter knows nothing about Ned’s, so other than the minor, unimportant debates he occasionally has with Ned about the Mets or a new video game just released, they have almost no bond between them. School, for Peter, is for the most part a get-in-and-get-out kind of deal; he’s in it for the learning and not so much the social aspects that everyone else seems to get so easily stuck in, and it’s not until recently that Peter finds himself regretting this approach, and he feels it so empathetically now that he’s talking with Ned about League of Legends, which he doesn’t even _play_ , when all he wants to do is talk about how he hasn’t seen his dad since Pops came home three nights before because he’s locked himself in his workshop.

And he knows that, while Ned wouldn’t get it, exactly, what Peter’s feeling, it would just be nice to _get it out there_.

“—and, anyways… Pete, you okay?” Ned’s voice sounds concerned enough that it makes Peter look up, frowning in confusion at the look of worry on the other boy’s face, to which the boy informs him that he looks like he’s just been sucker-punched in the spleen by his own kin.

“You’ve been looking kinda miserable lately, Pete,” Ned informs him, taking a bite of the overly-chewy mozzarella stick that’s come as part of the school lunch today, “Is everything okay?”

Peter shrugs. “Not dead.”

Ned gives a careful half-chuckle, still giving Peter a wary eye that lets him know he’s not exactly out of the ballpark yet, which is only amplified by the quiet, “You’re really crap at avoiding questions, Pete,” that the other teenager gives him.

Peter gives him best attempt at one of Tony’s paparazzi smiles. “I’m okay,” he lies.

The look Ned gives him informs him silently that he’s an even worse liar, but thankfully, Ned drops it. He can tell when he’s fighting a losing battle, especially when his opponent is as stubborn as Peter can be, which is nowhere near as bad as his Pops can be but still a force of its own. A part of himself—a very large part—wants to just tell Ned everything, because it is bothering him that much, and Ned’s not one to twinge distrust in him. Ned’s a cool guy, and he’s also not the kind of guy to just go tell Peter’s business around the whole school. But, at the same time, Ned’s got a mom and a dad and two little sisters at home and his parents work regular jobs and make Ned call the house when he gets out of school and he’s never had to worry about being still wanted by his adopted parents even years after the papers have been signed because his own birth parents didn’t want him.

For instance.

Other than Flash stealing his notes for the umpteenth time, the rest of his day isn’t all to memorable, simply another day in the life of the normal Peter Parker, whereas by seventh period everyone’s crowing about Captain America saving the day yet again in a place that’s so far removed from New York that it feels like it had to have been more than three days ago that Pops was just sitting on the couch with him and Dad. Peter doesn’t know, nor does he care to know, the details of yet another one of the Avengers’ newest heroic feats, nor does he want to know any details of the ensuing debate of what’s considered to be the threat that the Avengers’ pose in their unregulated state. None of it matters to Peter all too much, because all he can think is _dear god, dear lord, please let my dad be okay, please let Steve be okay_ , because he knows that he’s nothing but normal Peter Parker and there’s fuck all he can do to help his Pops.

If Peter has to pick two things that just absolutely _burns_ about being normal Peter Parker, it’s that he can’t admit to knowing his own fathers, and that he’s powerless to help them when they need it, because unlike them, he’s not a hero of any sort; he’s not gifted with super strength or the access to literally every resource on the face of the planet, he’s just a kid from Queens who happens to have been adopted by the two biggest heroes on the face of the goddamn _planet_.

Tony’s out of his hidey-hole by the time Peter gets home, but it’s only because, Peter assumes, FRIDAY’s locked him out again after he hit his 60-hour set limit, and given by the fact that he’s currently arguing with someone over the phone while deconstructing the toaster oven, he’s not all too happy about it. Peter drops his bag by the door and walks over to the kitchen, slipping into the chair before his Dad, who gives him a greeting smile before almost immediately frowning and a triumphant return to barking at the person on the other end of the phone—probably the lawyers, Peter guesses; he always gets really frustrated by the lawyers. Peter, for his part, puts his chin atop the hands he’s laid atop the table, watching his father quietly, noticing the amount of white hairs Tony’s been developing lately, as well as the tire that seems to wear at his body, which is by no means unfit for duty yet but time is clearly beginning to take its hits, and he wonders why his dad seems to think he’s got to take on more battle than anyone else does. He’s not even an active-duty Avenger anymore and yet he takes on more of the heat that the government spews every time the team does something unsanctioned or borderline disastrous, and it’s entirely unfair that it’s somehow his fault that someone’s trying to save the damn world.

His Pops leads it, but it’s Dad who runs it, and in this moment, it’s more painfully true than any other, because the Avengers are, truthfully, one small misstep away from being declared terrorists and criminal but it’s because of Dad’s back-alley fights that they’re even afloat still. They’re fighting the good fight, Peter believes it, but Dad’s also fighting the necessary one that they all seem all too willing to ignore, and every single time Peter remembers this fact makes his own pain only grow worse.

Dad hangs up with a frustrated growl that only worsens when he realizes what he’s done to the toaster, which would make him laugh if he didn’t look so exhausted, so he quietly takes the screwdriver from him and shoos him off to get himself food, because Peter knows inherently that, even though he’s been in the workshop for three days, he’s probably only come out to eat maybe once or twice.

Dad laughs a bit, though it’s half-hearted and weak.

“Since when did you become the parent?” he asks as he pushes up from the table as Peter sets to work, returning the mess of wires back to their proper places.

Peter snorts. “You can be the parent again once you’ve eaten the first meal of your day, young man,” he chastises lightly, waggling a finger at him, and Dad’s laugh becomes a tiny bit more heartfelt as he begins to rummage through the fridge.

Thankfully, Tony hadn’t been at it long enough to deconstruct it fully, so it doesn’t take him all too long to put things back where they belong, plugging it back in its outlet in what feels like no time at all, but is apparently long enough for Tony to have found the leftover Thai food from the week before, heat it up, and eat half, the smell of pad Thai permeating the air. He takes back his Dad duties once Peter’s done checking that the toaster does indeed still work, ordering the teen to find himself something for dinner.

Peter smirks. “They gave us pizza at the meeting, Tony,” he informs him.

Dad’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Please tell me it’s not after four,” he requests, but Peter can’t do that—it is, after all, nearly eight o’clock at night, and he winces when he’s made aware of the fact, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am a terrible person, aren’t I?”

“You can be,” Peter admits with a cheeky smile, to which Tony pretends to be more wounded than he actually is, “But you had things to do, I bet. All I want to know is that you got to finish as many projects as you could and all will be forgiven.”

Tony sighs. “I wish,” he admits, “But Steve’s buddy Sam completely _wrecked_ his suit. Components that I designed to withstand some aggressive damage got hit without the outer shell ever being penetrated.”

Peter arches a brow in intrigue. “EMP?”

“Designed to have a fallback system as a failsafe in case of EMP,” Tony informs him, “Fallback never triggered. The chips got ripped out of their places and the current paths got wrecked. Getting that fixed without finances flipping their shit is going to be a nightmare.” He shrugs. “I mean, I can do it, but I just got to wait for the ink to dry on the checks. Thankfully, Sam’s a pretty patient guy from what I can tell.”

“He has to be, considering you’re willing to work with stolen government property,” he reminds his father.

Tony chuckles. “Also true,” he allows before asking, “So how was school today?”

Peter shrugs. “Like school, I guess. I learned stuff,” he responds, not being intentionally vague—there isn’t all too much to talk about, after all, other than what happened with Ned, and that’s too much to think about, and he doesn’t want to do such a thing to himself, not when Dad’s smiling right now, even if it’s just a little bit. It’s not often that moments like this happen anymore, and all Peter can do is enjoy its full detail and vibrancy for all of its worth.

He can only wish that he could have more moments like this, but for now, he figures he’s content to enjoy this one, continuing, “I need help with my chemistry homework.”

Tony smiles. “I think you’re forgetting that I’m not a chemistry guy.”

“No, but you are a genius, so I think that makes up for that,” Peter responds.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tony says with a grin, “Except for this one time. Pull it out, kiddo, let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, lemme know how i'm doing please :)


	4. To Realize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter thinks more about his place in his family.

All in all, it’s a good night that follows—they (mostly Peter, because Tony doesn’t actually like ice cream but doesn’t realize that Peter knows that) eat the leftover Breyer’s that’s been hiding in the back of the freezer for about two months, which is covered with ice and has this weird texture from all the freezing and defrosting and refreezing, as well as a full bag of Tostito’s and the old salsa jar that Peter finds in the back of the fridge; the food to accompany the reinforcement of the material that Peter only sort-of-kind-of-nearly understood beforehand, rock quietly playing in the background of their attentions as science takes their focuses. Peter’s too scared to leave the table to go grab his camera to capture these moments, for fear of coming back and finding them to be over, but he’s sure that FRIDAY’s getting good enough shots in his stead. He does manage to sneak away when Tony passes out after they cover DNA replication (because Tony knows and Peter’s asked), a bit of salsa on his upper lip and pen in hand from when he was scribbling random points of interest within the topic, grabbing his camera and snapping a photo quietly.

Peter’s got two cameras, a digital SLR and a film one, and while the digital’s easier for the sake of instant gratification and such, he much prefers the beauty of the hard work that comes with his OM-2, which he found at a flea market for dirt cheap back before he had met Tony. Film is the only real expense that he’s ever been willing to spend his money on, even now, and he learned nice and early how to go about developing film on his own, finding it cheaper to just pay for the use of a lab and develop multiple rolls rather than paying for each roll separate to be developed, and so he was admittedly excited when he found out his school has an old photo development lab that was free for his usage, as so long as he bought his own fluids, which he keeps in his very own [un]official shelf at the top of cabinet in the very back of the room. Tony’s photo is, thankfully, near the end of the roll, so by Tuesday, Peter’s playing [his very secret pleasure, please don’t tell Tony, he'd die if he found out that Peter wasn't as into rock as he's led him to believe] Eminem as loud as he dares, humming to himself as he moves through the familiar motions, vinegar burning at his nose in a familiar, pleasant way. He enjoys this as much as he does programming, which is why he doesn’t mind that he’s missing a meeting with the robotics club to be here, much to the chagrin of the rest of the team, which he knows he’s going to hear about come the next day, but it’s not like a programmer is entirely useful in this stage, anyways—they don’t have any set mechanism that he can even begin to think of code for.

Peter so easily loses track of time in this little art of his, bringing to life the physical photos he’s taken one painstakingly cut roll at a time, so it’s not really a big shock when the security guard comes in to tell him that he’s the only thing stopping the her from going home for dinner, which he apologizes for in a rambling mess of _sorry_ and _please forgive me_ , to which the guard laughs as this isn’t the first, nor will it be the last time, that she’ll have to go get Peter out of the dark room. At least this time, she took care to knock before shoving the door open; Peter did regret the whining that had ensued when the light had flooded into the room but it also did stop her from just shoving her way into a dark room.

He leaves the film to dry overnight, shouldering his backpack as he loads in a fresh roll of film into the back of his Olympus, already excited about the prospect of the new photos he’ll take next, the possibility that comes with the unknown giving him a sort of thrill as he lifts the camera to his face, looking out at the darkened neighborhood through the eye of his lens, snapping a quick shot of the street as illuminated by the streetlights before tucking the camera away into the large pocket of his backpack, pulling out his phone and wincing at the time, shooting off a quick text to his dad with the small white lie of getting food with nonexistent friends, his stomach grumbling in response to being included in Peter’s fibs. Camera safely tucked into its little pouch in the inside of his bag, he begins his trek to the subway station before being distracted by the calling of his name in an unfamiliar voice. For a moment, he’s worried that there’s some sort of stalker come to abduct him, but he quickly figures that if he were going to be abducted, they probably wouldn’t have alerted him to the fact, so it tempers down quite quickly. It’s a baseless fear regardless, because it’s immediately replaced with abject terror because he recognizes the woman that’s running towards him now, and he has half a mind to turn tail and run.

Mrs. Parker is armed with a non-threatening turtle-covered lunch bag and an old leather cross-body handbag that makes her appear to be the epitome of unassuming, and it does nothing to soothe the instantly frayed nerves that Peter now possesses when he realizes that she’s excited to see him. He’s been debating calling the older couple since the moment he left their home, unsure if he’s ready enough to pursue his past after all when he’s struggling so with the present, and he was almost sure that the chances of him running into them, after being in Forest Hills so constantly for so long, are slim to none, but apparently chance is not something that’s overly fond of being betted upon. He’s feeling nothing but sheer panic for not having called her back, but from her expression, one would assume that she’s the happiest she could ever be, her hug—warm and loving and reminiscent of tentacles wrapping tight around him without the threat of being eaten—only proving that she’s the picture-perfect expression of absolute happiness now. Peter doesn’t get to say a word, and if he’s being entirely honest, it’s probably for the best; like his Pops, he does have a predisposition towards lodging his foot in his mouth.

When she pulls back, she tells him to join her for dinner. She doesn’t ask him if he’s free or if he’s even willing, and Peter doesn’t dare argue, considering it nothing short of a saving grace that she’s not hitting him with that turtle lunch bag of hers. She sends a quick text off to (Peter assumes to be) he husband before pulling him along, linking their arms together so he can’t run away, not trying to force conversation out of the nerve-racked teen as she leads him to a nearby diner, sitting him down on one side of the booth and ordering them both sodas and waters to start.

“I mean,” Mrs. Parker says with a blush, “If that’s alright with you, Peter.”

Considering he hasn’t had so much choice so far, he does little more than shrug.

“I like soda,” he says lamely. He’s not sure what else there is to say in such a situation.

They lapse back into silence, during which time Tony texts him back, making him aware of the time despite the fact that it shows up in the top corner of his phone, asking him when he’s planning to come home. He’s long out of the realms of the days of his curfews, and despite the fact that he’s lived in Queens all his life and has been in some pretty bad situations himself, Tony still acts as if he’s never seen so much as a joint before, which is not so much annoying as it is utterly adorable to Peter. All these years later, and he still finds himself happy that he’s got himself a dad who cares so much about him, which is taken for granted by most kids but Peter just can’t lose appreciation of.

“Is that your parent?” Mrs. Parker asks, reminding him that he’s not alone.

He blushes, locking the phone. “Sorry.”

She waves her hand. “Don’t apologize,” she says with a smile, “I’m just worried that I’m keeping you past your curfew.”

Peter can’t help but laugh a bit. When she asks why, he responds, “I was just thinking about my curfew, actually. I used to have one, but then I got to high school and Dad just figured I didn’t really need one anymore.”

She smiles a bit wider, though she looks, for a singular instant, sad when he says the word _dad_ , but it’s gone before he can quantify it. “Not the wild type, Peter?”

He blushes lightly. “I build robots for _fun_ ,” he tells her, “How wild a child could I possibly be?”

“Good point, well made,” she laughs, and it’s definitely verging on magical, how much it soothes Peter’s nerves, allowing him to relax, even the slightest bit, into the cushions of the booth, and he’s probably a bit too visibly relieved because she laughs a bit more at it, saying that he’s far too nervous around her considering she used to change his soiled diapers, a statement he expects to clamp up at more than just become entirely embarrassed.

“That’s not fair,” he argues, “That’s a trump card.”

She shrugs. “Not everything’s fair,” she replies with a cheeky grin.

It’s amazing, how easy it is to calm down around Mrs. Parker. She has a weird, damn near hypnotic way at putting people at ease, he finds out, and it probably has something to do with the fact that she has this utterly relaxed way of handling any situation, not letting anything get her panicked or too out of sorts. She talks about herself as much as she can, which Peter quickly realizes isn’t out of some sort of narcissism but rather some way to ease Peter into bringing his own life into the conversation, because he hardly notices how the conversation fade from her experiences as a nurse to how tough Peter finds chemistry.

“Dad’s good at it, though. Ridiculously, actually, but it’s because he’s really just good at everything to do with science,” Peter finds himself explaining, taking a bite of a steak fry, “He’s a mechanical engineer primarily. But he’s got a couple of PhD’s, too.”

Mrs. Parker raises a brow, impressed. “Sounds like quite the resume your father has. Does he work anywhere good with that kind of background?”

Peter shrugs. “He used to run a company, but he stepped down a while ago. Wanted to get back to development rather than dealing with business,” he says, which isn’t _technically_ a lie, really, if you think about it, “But he doesn’t work too much anymore.” For S.I, anyways. “He mostly just does his own thing nowadays.” For the _Avengers_.

She frowns just a bit. “So he’s not working?”

“Only a bit. A couple of projects here and there. But it’s okay, Dad does have a bit of cash lying around.” _A bit_ is the furthest he’s planning to lie the entire night in regards to Tony. Mrs. Parker nods sagely, and Peter feels compelled to add, “Dad’s a really good guy.”

“He sounds like it,” Mrs. Parker assures him with a smile before asking, “Ben told me you mentioned having parents, as in plural. What does your mother do?” which is a bit awkward, only because his mind always tends to try to imagine Steve in a frilly homemaker dress as a result.

He coughs a bit, chasing away the fresh image in his head, “Pops does civil service,” which is the new limit he establishes to how much he’s going to bend he the truth in accordance to either of his parents.

Mrs. Parker turns beet red, on her part. “ _Oh_ ,” she responds, relatively thrown off for a moment before continuing, “That sounds interesting.”

Peter shrugs. “Pops likes it, I guess,” he mutters, suddenly finding the pickle he left to the side particularly interesting, batting it around with his butter knife.

She gives him a look that he doesn’t really take notice of until she asks if that’s the reason he looks so unhappy, which he’s more than off guard enough to be shocked, looking up at her in surprise, accidentally knocking the pickle right off of his plate and onto the sticky tabletop. Mrs. Parker picks it up and wraps it up in napkin, apparently not wanting to leave pickle juice to merge with the rest of the grime of the table, acting as calm and collected as Peter himself no longer was, a soft, sad smile upon her lips as she visibly contemplates how she is going to explain herself to Peter when he asks how she’s figured that. She taps her lower lip, pursing it just the slightest, playing with the remains of her salad while Peter’s anxiousness grew by each passing moment, nearly boiling over just as she responds,

“Well, I guess I can kind of see it by the way you responded—almost as if you’re trying not to be angry at him for being busy, I guess would be the best explanation, because you love him.” She looks at him carefully. “Which is very mature of you, but you’re not even sixteen yet. You can be a bit angry at your father if that’s what you want to be. It’s allowed. Expected, actually, given your age,” she finishes with a small smile.

Peter bites his lip slightly. He doesn’t really feel the same way about it. It’s not like his Pops _wants_ to be away, after all—it’s just his duty. He carries the world on his shoulder so that way, one day, Peter himself can have the world himself, and while all he wants to scream is that he _doesn’t fucking need it_ , it seems like it’s just spitting in the face of Pops’ efforts, as well as Dad’s, even though all he truly wants is one full day with both his parents and his family to remind him that all the time he’s got to give up with them is worth it in the long run.

“Pops is just trying to do the best that he can for me,” Peter responds slowly, “I’ve got no reason to complain about that.”

Mrs. Parker nods, but she doesn’t say anything, because she apparently just _knows_ that Peter’s got more that he wants to say, which kind of pours out before he can really stop it,

“I just hope that it’s all worth it, you know? In the end, I mean, I hope that everything Pops and Dad do for me is worth all the blood and the sweat and the tears that they’ve given in the name of giving me the best life possible. Because, I mean, what if I mess it up? What if I take it and I don’t do it right?”

“Do what right?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

Peter shrugs. “Any of it, I guess,” he responds, shaking his head, “What if I can’t be the person that I’m supposed to be in order to honor all the efforts my parents have put towards bettering my life? What if I can’t be…” He swallows loudly now as he faces a prospect he hadn’t even known he’s been considering, “What if I’m not the person my parents want me to grow into?”

Mrs. Parker looks at him, but she says nothing. It’s okay, Peter decides, because there’s nothing much she really can say, in actuality.

After she changes the subject towards a lighter topic, they chat with only the slightest hint of lingering terseness for about another hour before Peter decides that if he’s not on the next train home in the next twenty minutes he’s going to give Tony an actual heart attack, so after forcing Mrs. Parker to let him pay for at least half the meal (and a hefty tip for their tired waitress) they part ways with a promise from him to call or text by next week. Despite the small hiccup in the middle, it’s not been an overall bad experience—it’s surely left him less worried about whether or not the Parkers are good people. In fact, they’re probably too nice, putting up with him, and he’s trying to think of gifts as he swipes his Metrocard at the turnstile, a few minutes early for the next train. The only broken seat, however, is taken by a homeless man, so he stands, leaning against the wall and trying his best not to stare at the huge bunion the homeless man isn’t trying to hide.

Besides himself and the hobo, there’s all of six or seven other people at the platform, a group of a couple of teenagers and a lone man standing off to the side. He doesn’t know the teenagers, but the way they’re eyeing him gives him a pretty good guess as to their intentions, so he does his best not to seem like such a target of interest by shoving his hands into his pockets and ignoring the fact that they exist, all the while already fishing for his wallet in hopes of making any potential mugging slightly easier by giving them what they want. All he’s got is a couple of folded ten-dollar bills in it anyways; he keeps the debit and credit cards back at the tower so he can ignore they exist.

Despite his best efforts, they saunter on over to him anyways, not so much taller than him than physically bigger; probably boxers or football players. One pulls out a blackjack, the other a switchblade, and Peter knows that it’s more for intimidation than it is for actual use. These guys don’t look like they’ve been in as so much more than a fist fight all their lives, but Peter’s not stupid enough to think it’ll make much of a difference. Inexperienced or not, they could still very well kill him right there on that platform and there wouldn’t be a single person, besides the other man and the hobo, who’ll tell the cops what happened.

“Give us your cash,” the biggest one demands.

Peter hands it over, no questions asked, and if it were another situation, it’d be funny how surprised the kid gets that it’s so simple. Peter holds up his arms in defeat, wanting to avoid as much of a fight as he can as he waits for his train to come, because if there’s one place on the entirety of the planet that he’d like less to die, it’s on a subway platform in the company of a homeless person with a bunion the size of a tennis ball, and it’s for that reason that he allows one of the other boys to frisk him, taking property of the special, personalized Starkphone his dad had made him for graduating middle school.

“Shit’s fire!” one of them crows.

“Keep it,” Peter tells him. It’s not as if they can use it if they wants to, anyways—the security measures are such that the phone fries itself if it identifies that an unauthorized user is trying to access its data.

The boys rip his bookbag off of his shoulders, going roughly through its contents in a way that makes him wince, pulling out his camera and shaking it a bit too harshly for his comfort, wanting nothing more than to reach out and snap the guy’s arms for not being careful enough with his things but knowing that he wasn’t in a position to fight. These guys had the power right now, not him; he hadn’t possessed it for a single moment as so far.

“This looks like shit,” he complains, “It’s not even digital.”

“Well, what’s the fucking point of that, then,” the leader exclaims, “Just fucking toss it.”

And it’s probably not literally that it’s meant, but the lackey does regardless, tossing it over his shoulder into the tracks below, and Peter wishes that he could remember moving, could remember pushing past the teens and jumping into the tracks to save his precious camera, but it’s all a blur of a few moments that leave him face to face with the bright lights of an oncoming train that, if he were anything remotely like his Pops, he could avoid, but since he’s nothing but puny Peter Parker, he can do little more than just close his eyes and hope that at least they won’t use his yearbook photo at his wake, because it’s probably one of the worst photos in existence of himself.

He also hopes he doesn’t pee himself when the train hits him—he doesn’t know if he can handle such embarrassment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for ghosting--I'm a full time student and full time employee. I wanted to come back so badly TT.TT Hopefully this chapter does suffice. I'm hoping to upload the next and last one by next week so leave me some reviews, motivate me on the Bucky story!!!


	5. To Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of this installation of Peter's life, and the beginnings of an origin story.

He feels something barrel into him that feels more like _football player_ than _speeding train_ , but he doesn’t have the time to quantify it as he’s lifted off his feet, the wind rushing by him as the train speeds past him, his body held tight into something all too warm to be the embrace of death before he’s set back on his feet. He risks opening his eyes just a touch as he realizes that he’s being [vigorously] rubbed down from shoulder to hips, as if being checked for injuries, finding himself shocked to see long brown hair and wide, worried grey eyes.

“The fuck were you thinking,” the stranger’s muttering, “the fuck were you thinking?” a question Peter’s not too sure how to answer, if he’s being honest, because he wasn’t _really_ thinking much else than _can’t let them take my camera from me_ , and also, this guy’s face is a bit of a distraction. The man’s attractive in a rugged way, with five day’s growth and overlong, tangled brown hair and a chiseled, perfect example of a jawline that he’s ever seen in his life, and he’d snap a picture of it if it weren’t for the fact that the man looks like he’s about two steps away from _flipping his shit_ , hands roughly patting Peter down despite the fact that the teen himself is already informing him that he’s completely fine.

“I mean, I might’ve rolled my ankle a bit, but otherwise I’m okay,” he says, dimly aware of the closing doors behind him as the train prepared to roll out of the platform.

The man drops to his knees almost instantly, demanding to know which ankle before growling in frustration and simply checking both instead, the rough skin of his hand touching gently at Peter’s ankles as he checked him for a broken bone. Once satisfied, he gets back to his feet, leveling Peter with an incredible imitation of the _I’m going to fuck you up for almost dying_ look that he’s seen a multitude of times from the Avengers in regards to Uncle Clint. Instead of tearing into him, however, the man shakes his head, shoving Peter’s phone and wallet back into his hands, much to his confusion before he explains,

“They dropped it and ran when you _dived into the fucking tracks_.”

Peter winces. “In hindsight,” he says, “It was a bit stupid.”

“A _bit_?” the man asks dryly, arching an incredulous brow.

“A lot bit?” Peter tries, cringing just a bit.

“Shoulda let you get hit,” the man growls, moving away from Peter to pick up his backpack from where it lay helpless on the ground, “I really shoulda let your dumb ass get hit.”

“But you didn’t,” Peter says, earning himself a scowl from the man.

“And I regret it every passing moment,” he responds, shoving the bag into Peter’s arms, “And now I’ve missed my train, thanks to you.”

Peter blinks owlishly, whipping around to see the empty space in which a train had once been the occupant, cursing lowly to himself. “Dad’s gonna be _pissed_ ,” he whispers to himself.

“Fuck your dad, _I’m_ pissed,” the man reminds him, “I wanted to get somewhere, but you had to just jump for the gold there.”

Peter’s brow wrinkles. “I think you’re running out of Olympic jokes to make about this,” he tells him.

The man informs him that the time’s come that he shuts the fuck up now. But, unfortunately for him, Peter’s never been entirely good at this prospect, so after a brief silence, he mutters,

“Thank you,”

To which the man oh-so-politely informs him that he can go fuck himself.

Peter forces a smile. “I could’ve _died_. You saved me,” he says, “Thank you. You’re a hero.”

The man bristles. “Never that,” he grounds out before turning on his heel, marching away.

“Where’re you going?” Peter calls after him, confused. Doesn’t he need this train?

“Home,” he informs Peter as he passes through the turnstile, “Didn’t really wanna go where I was goin’ anyways. I’ll go another day.”

Peter frowns before asking, more out of curiosity than anything else, “Not even gonna tell me what to call you?”

The man pauses before turning around, leveling Peter with a dark, guarded glare that doesn’t do more than make the boy vaguely uncomfortable; having spent a lot of time in the company of a Black Widow who pretty much holds the world title on dirty looks meant that he’s nearly desensitized to such looks.

“Why would’ya need that?” he barks at Peter.

Peter shrugs. “In case I see you again. In case I need saving again.”

The man rolls his eyes. “You need saving again and I’ll kick your ass, kid,” he informs him, turning back around before saying, “Call me Barnes, you shit. And don’t dive into tracks for fucking _cameras_ ; they’re more replaceable than your life is.”

He’s not looking, but Peter’s actually smiling a bit, even though he’s not entirely sure that he’s trying to be funny. “See you around, Barnes!” he calls after the man.

A stiff middle finger is all the response he gets, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel half as offensive as it’s supposed to be. If anything, it fills Peter with a sort of weird elation that he’s not exactly sure how to quantify but, regardless, doesn’t question.

The sight of Natasha in the apartment had, at first, been a source of excitement; a red flag that should’ve gone up refusing to trigger due to his familiarity with the former assassin, but the look she gives him when he comes a hair’s breath away from hugging her gives him the clue he’s apparently missed. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, she looks as if she’s just gotten off a cross-country motorbike vacation, which, given her personality, is entirely within the realm of possibility; but the hardness in her eyes speaks to anything but the inherent relaxation her outfit would suggest. Hair tied back, body language tense—she looks like she’s barely holding back her own anger, and it’s both sobering and confusing, because he’s missed his Tetya these past few months she’s been gone, and now that she’s finally back, she doesn’t look like she’s missed _him_ in the least. In fact, she looks damn near ready to just snap his neck at that precise moment, and he can only _hope_ that the only reason she does not is that they are something akin to aunt and nephew, if not for the fact that Peter’s father, the goddamn _Iron Man_ , stands not even a whole ten feet away.

Tony’s body language is another clue to something amiss—his face is smiling, but Peter’s more than familiar with that smile; it’s the one he uses exclusively for the press when he’s hiding things, like disappointment or anger, so Peter doesn’t look at his face for more than a moment. He looks towards his posture—upright and terse—and towards his arms—crossed—and his leg—bouncing up and down. Tony’s not pissed like Tetya seems to be, which Peter finds a small sense of momentary relief in finding, but happy the man is not, and for the life of him, Peter can’t figure out _why_ , but then, as if they’ve both sensed his question, the television begins to play, drawing his attentions, eyes widening when he realizes what show they’ve got planned for him that night.

It’s CCTV, specifically from the subway, _specifically_ from the station he’d only just left about forty-five minutes ago; his own face slightly pixelated from having been adapted to fit the screens. It’s an odd experience, watching _himself_ dive into the tracks, watching _himself_ scramble to retrieve his camera, watching _himself_ curl up in wait for the impact of the train—watching _himself_ as he’s picked up by the dark mass he knows now to be Barnes, watching the man leap into the tracks with a certain and odd amount of grace, picking him up as if he’s weightless, getting a flash of silver before the man literally leaps from the tracks—a feat in and of itself, because the tracks are five feet below the platform and man makes the jump with ease that speaks to superhuman, but that doesn’t matter, he decides, because Peter doesn’t need to see that to figure out who it is. He’s figured it out the moment he saw the glint of silver in the video, he realizes, dropping his bag as he goes closer to the screens, mouth gaping as he watched Barnes turn away from him, the facial recognition apparently embedded into the program of the camera kicking in as it analyzes the contours of the man’s face right before Peter’s eyes, a data sheet with the man’s picture and the identified name of _James Buchanan Barnes_ overtaking the screen.

They make him agree—no, _swear_ —not to tell Steve. Knowing Barnes was in New York would only lead him towards distraction, Natasha reasons, and none of them could afford such a distraction at the current; not when they’ve earned the hatred of the world in the wake of Sokovia.

“Steve has to prove that the Avengers can be trusted,” Natasha tells him as gently as she can manage, staring him down as if she were interrogating him instead, “That’s his main job right now. The last thing we need is him running off to go find Barnes—”

“—his _best friend_ ,” Peter says at the same time that Tony adds,

“—a _wanted_ criminal.”

“He saved my _life_ ,” Peter reasons, motioning towards the screen.

Tony’s eyes harden just a bit before he says, “And, yeah, we’ll have a discussion about how fucking _stupid_ that was,” his words containing an unexpected little bite that has Peter hanging his head in guilt before he continues, “Regardless of what good he’s done, it doesn’t mean we get to forget what bad he’s done, too. Sure, he might’ve done it as a victim of Hydra, but that doesn’t mean to say that we get to decide he’s absolved of the crimes he’s had to commit; it’s not our right. It’s for a jury to decide, not for us.”

“Besides,” Natasha continues, looking at Peter carefully, “We’re no longer at our own liberty to decide what we can and can’t do. We’ve done that, and look where it’s landed us—public distrust and shame. Every day, the government looks to slap a collar on us and we have to work even harder to prove that we don’t need one. How would it look if we suddenly gave the government what they want to see by harboring a fugitive?”

“But—” Peter begins before Tony interrupts harshly,

“ _This isn’t a debate._ ”

“ _Tony_ ,” Natasha whispers, chastising, before she looks to Peter, who’s so taken aback by the tone Tony’s just taken that all he can do is listen as she says, “If you tell Steve, right now, the first thing he’ll do is drop the recon mission he’s on in Bermuda, leaving Clint there by himself, and come straight here. He’ll then proceed to scour the city for Barnes, who’s actively being hunted by the government as we speak, and best case scenario, he’ll spook Barnes into turning tail and running. In that case, not only will we raise eyebrows and possibly an investigation as to why Captain America is playing manhunt, but we’ll also let a known criminal out of our sights. Right now, Barnes isn’t doing anyone any bit of harm, and from the looks of things, if it weren’t for you trying to get yourself killed, he wouldn’t have even let himself be _known_.” Natasha looks at him imploringly as she finishes, “Peter, it’ll do no one any bit of good if you tell Steve. Least of all Barnes.”

 Peter looks at Natasha for a moment before looking back at Tony, who’s now allowing himself to look as ticked off—not mad, but definitely not happy with his son’s actions—as he so obviously feels, but he’s also aware of the utter _shame_ that’s lingering in the back of his eyes—this is obviously not his ideal situation, Peter knows in that moment, not what he’d prefer, not what he’d like to do—it’s simply a necessary evil, in Tony’s eyes, that they must follow for all of their sakes. This whole thing was about more than just them, Peter knew, more than about what they would prefer or would like, and in that moment, Peter knew what it was that his dads so frequently put themselves through—what they so often force themselves to do—what he now had to do as well. This is what it meant, Peter decides, to be a hero: to give up what you want for the sake of the greater good.

So Peter, ever so quietly, nods in affirmation, complete and utter _guilt_ burning at his heart, giving up his own selfish inclination for the sake of others and the detriment of the few. The decision doesn’t sit easily with Peter, especially when he sees how little Tony himself likes that they have to ask him to do so, but he knows he has little else choice. He can’t help but feel the burden of _knowing_ that he was betraying Steve with his feigned ignorance, can’t help but feel the guilt of knowing that he was hiding something that he knows Steve to find grave importance in, and it _hurts_ , knowing that he doesn’t have any other choice but to do so—for the sake of the Avengers as a whole.

For the good of many rather than the sake of one, Peter Parker finds himself disregarding his own father in order for the whole to be safe.

And never has Peter felt so detached from his own humanism than now, and he now realizes exactly what his parents have been trying so hard to avoid him realizing in the first place. This is the first sacrifice he’s ever made of such a scale, and yet, looking into Dad’s eyes now with a new light, this is hardly the first time Tony’s had to make such a decision to protect people, and he doesn’t even bother with trying to figure out how many times his own Tetya has been in such a spot (because at this point, surely, this must be nothing more than some sort of second-nature for her, given her previous line of work). Tony’s been making this very sacrifice for longer than Peter can truly comprehend, and he can see clearly that it hurts just as much now as it does for Peter now, if not _more_ so, considering what kind of relationship Tony and Steve share, and Peter’s not the kind of fool to believe that Steve hasn’t made this choice, either. All of the Avengers, he’s thinking, must’ve been in this spot, must’ve had to make this call: help this one precious person or protect the many—and he’s no fool to believe that they went with the former decision.

And, you know what he decides?

He decides it’s so _fucking_ unfair that they’ve been making this sacrifice all this time, without anyone to lighten the load, because while they may have each other; they’re only a group of only just over ten individuals, those who hold the title of Avenger. Ten is not enough. It’s not fair to them that they must shoulder the responsibility. So he makes a decision, in the back of his mind, a seed that he’s not even fully aware of developing; an idea that begins to fester within him. He doesn’t fully realize it now, and he won’t for a while yet—but it’s the very idea that has him dreaming of soaring through the skies, of protecting maidens from monsters, of saving the world from destruction.

To become a hero, not for himself, but for the family who has shouldered the burden alone for too long.

Peter Parker decides to become a hero to take on some of the sacrifices so that, one day, his aunts and uncles and fathers will no longer have to; a hero worthy of the weight of the very sacrifices they’ve made over their time.

And, thus is the beginning of his life as he would come to know it, in this small, painful moment, wanting nothing more than to cry but remaining strong for the sake of his precious people, standing on the cusp of realization of the strife his family choose to suffer, taking his first step towards becoming a man worthy of being called a hero, the image of a man who’s been made to suffer for far too long burned into his retinas as he begins to formulate a basic plan on how, _exactly_ , he’s going to go about helping a one James Buchanan Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you guys think!!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! Leave a comment, let me know what you think! :)


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